


The Witch of South Kensington

by featherxquill



Category: The Infinite Bad (Podcast)
Genre: Character Death Fix, Companions, Cornelia/Sebastian or Cornelia & Sebastian, Domestic, F/M, Gen, I am not entirely sure how to tag this ok, Idk you decide, Magic, Post-Canon, Shippy Gen, Temporary Character Death, platonic friendship or aromantic non-platonic or very british romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 02:12:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17572355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/featherxquill/pseuds/featherxquill
Summary: After their return from Antarctica, Joy has her destiny and Cornelia is alone. But the universe has its own way of righting things, and just because Cornelia has sworn off the occult doesn't mean it's finished with her.





	The Witch of South Kensington

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Myx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myx/pseuds/Myx) and [this-is-not-an-alias](http://this-is-not-an-alias.tumblr.com/) for looking this over for me! I am eternally grateful for your feedback and reassurance :).

_I go and prepare a place for you._  
_And I will come again and will take you to myself,_  
_so that where I am, there you may be also._  
_John 14.3_

__

__

 

As the plane disappears from view, Sebastian breathes his last. Joy's hand, curled over Cornelia's in his palm, squeezes tight around his slackening grip, and Dorothy's breath hitches in a quiet sob as she clings to his other hand. Cornelia closes her eyes against their sting, feels her eyelashes frost nonetheless, and for several moments everything is quiet and still, the ache palpable in the air between them.

It is Jean-Selim who breaks the silence, kneeling down by Sebastian's head and reaching out to close his eyes. "I do not know what the Christians do," he whispers, "but in my faith we say _assalaamu ‘alaykum warahmatullah_ \- peace and blessings of God be unto you."

"May the Lord Jesus protect you," Cornelia murmurs, adding a sliver from her own memory, "and lead you to eternal life."

"Amen," Dorothy breathes, and Joy echoes her a moment later. 

Eventually, they are forced to move - the seeping cold of the snow beneath their knees becomes impossible to ignore. When they stand, shaken and cold, Cornelia needs Joy’s assistance, and as they lean against each other for a moment, Joy asks: 

“So, that plane did see us, right?”

“It seemed so,” Cornelia agrees. “We can only hope that rescue is on the way.”

“Though how long it will take,” Dorothy adds, “we can only guess. We should be prepared to keep ourselves warm.”

“What…” Joy ventures. “What should we do with Sebastian?”

They all hesitate, so eventually Dorothy says: “We can’t take him all the way back to England. It’s just not medically feasible.”

“We can’t just leave him here,” Joy protests. 

“We can’t,” Cornelia agrees, thinking, as she suspects they all are, of the penguins and the grotesque way they had fed on the corpse of the stag. Cornelia casts about for an answer, gaze sweeping across the snowy terrain, until it eventually comes to rest on the mound of earth they disturbed earlier. It’s already half a grave. “We should bury him,” she says. “We’ve already started digging, and finishing the job will at least keep us warm.”

“I don’t suppose the buried monolith will trouble him now,” Joy says, with a lilt in her voice. 

“No,” Cornelia agrees, somewhat absently. A thought tugs at the corner of her mind, but it’s gone again before she can grasp it. 

They begin. Joy has her shovel, and Dorothy manages to find some old pots in the kitchen of this mirror Drakelow Hall which will serve as makeshift digging implements, after which all four of them set about their task with grim determination. The earth is cold and shifting it is hard, but no one complains, and after about two hours they have widened and lengthened their original hole enough to make a serviceable, if shallow, grave. 

“If we pack the snow on top,” Jean-Selim says, “it will do.”

They bury Sebastian with his flask and his father’s pipe, and once they’ve covered him in a cairn of snow, Dorothy places his service pistol on top as a grave marker. 

Cornelia uncaps her flask of brandy. “To Sebastian,” she says. “Thank you for keeping us safe.” She takes a hearty sip, then passes the flask to Joy. 

“I hope heaven is full of dogs,” Joy says, and takes a swig. 

Even Dorothy imbibes. “Be at peace.”

Jean-Selim simply bows his head. 

They wait for rescue.

~*~

“This is something I need to do, Cornelia.”

It’s Joy, and it’s been six months since they returned from Antarctica - six months of feeling lost in aimless tinkering, because what do you do when the purpose of the last ten years of your life is over, and you have sworn never to be involved with such things again? It’s been six months of quiet grief, too, of waking and remembering that your friend is not simply a short cab ride away in his own London home, of encountering the absurd and ironic moments of life and expecting to hear his booming laugh. 

And now Joy is telling Cornelia that she is leaving - for Italy, of all places. 

“That thing spoke to me,” Joy says. “It made me whatever Angela was, and it said they were hungry. I can’t let myself believe that we destroyed every one of those things, and I have to make sure that they can never come back.”

“But...Italy?” Cornelia asks. “Do you have to go away? Without me?”

Joy sighs. “You said yourself that you’re not up to adventuring any more, and honestly, I think this is something I need to do by myself. All of my research suggests that there used to be a chapter of the cult in Naples, and I think there could be a cache of information there. I need to learn all I can about those creatures, the transformations, how the tea is made, and then destroy every reference to it.”

Everything she says is reasonable, in its way, but Cornelia remembers how mesmerised Joy was by the creature in the Antarctic cavern, remembers having to drag her away. She can’t help but think of the revelation she had there, either, the similarity she saw between Angela Gresley’s fierce determination and her daughter’s. She isn’t sure if she’s terrified for Joy or _of_ her, but she’s learned in this go-round as a mother that honesty, or a version of it, is important. 

“I’m scared,” she admits. “I’m frightened that you won’t come back, that they’ll get you instead of the opposite, that I’ll lose you the way I lost Brendel.”

A spasm of pity crosses Joy’s features, then her expression settles into resolve. “You know, there’s something I’ve never told you about what they did to me - because it was too horrible, because you had enough to be dealing with at the time. I bled, after that thing came out of me. I bled for nearly two weeks, like I’d given birth, and please believe me when I tell you that I never want anyone else to go through something like that. I want to destroy every trace of the cult’s existence.” She reaches out to grasp Cornelia’s hand. “I know what I’m about, and I promise, I will come back to you.”

She looks so fierce and determined that Cornelia cannot but believe her, can’t help but be momentarily overwhelmed with pride at the woman she’s become. Cornelia marvels at the thought of Joy going through something so horrible and coming out of it stronger; she is certainly a better woman than Cornelia was at 25. The revelation itself is chilling, though it feels so far removed now that it's almost impossible to muster up any reaction other than a dull flicker of horror. There was a time when Cornelia would have been upset with Joy for hiding things from her, but now all she can think about is what she was going through at the time - stricken with malaria and trying to process the knowledge that Brendel had abandoned her. She remembers what a pillar of strength Joy was during that time despite what she must have been feeling, and realises that Joy has one quality they never saw in Angela Gresley: the capacity for empathy.

“All right,” she concedes, reaching up to touch Joy’s cheek. “Go with my blessing. Listen to your instincts. Listen to your dreams. Remember that the uncanny can’t always be rationalised away.”

“I know,” Joy says, smiling and giving Cornelia’s hand a squeeze. “You’ve taught me well.”

~*~

After Joy leaves, Cornelia has dreams of her own. At first, they’re all loss and emptiness; she has visions of herself wandering in vast uninhabited places, searching for things she can’t quite name. Their meaning is obvious and their symbolism easy to interpret; Cornelia grows frustrated with herself for succumbing so easily to tired cliche. But as the weeks pass and loneliness becomes a palpable thing, something shifts. Cornelia finds herself dreaming once again of monoliths, those great obelisks throbbing with power. She dreams of snow flurries and damp earth, wakes feeling as though she has traversed continents. She tries to listen to what these dreams are telling her - tries to follow her own advice - but she can make no sense of the imagery other than as fragments of her own memory. She wonders if she is simply still processing her experiences.

It is a missive from Joy that helps redirect her. 

_I have found the cathedral,_ it reads. _It is a ruin, but it is unmistakably the same site that we encountered in the tomb of Aresnuphis. From the style of architecture, I believe this may be the original version, and the one we found merely a copy. Strangely, though, the damage appears to have been inflicted by dynamite - a fact which puzzles the local archaeologists no end, since they believe this site to have been untouched for centuries. It seems that the strange mirroring effect we experienced in Antarctica goes both ways, at least in some regards. Time and space sit strangely here; I feel as though I might at any moment open a door and find myself in Egypt._

Time _and_ space, Cornelia thinks. There is something in that. When she sleeps that night, she does so with a few specific questions, and her dreams give her answers. 

She is standing in the grounds of Drakelow Hall, but it is not the place she remembers visiting in 1919, nor its strange Antarctic mirror. The countryside surrounding her is recognisably English, but this building is new: white stone balustrades shine in the sunlight, and the paint is fresh and richly pigmented. There is a second obvious difference, too. In front of her lies a great sunken amphitheatre; she stands at the top of stairs leading down. At their feet is a wide circular space, the centre of which contains a stone altar, and behind it, a large monolith that looks ancient despite the newness of this place. 

Cornelia feels the pull of it, places one foot atop the stairs, but as she does she feels a rush of air, and the scene shifts. Day turns to night in an instant, and this place becomes the Drakelow Hall she knows, a proud and well-kept home, but not a new one. Her toes are half sunk into the earth that stretches in front of her, but when she looks at it closely she can see that the lawn is uneven. It glows faintly in a circle as wide as the filled pit, eerie and exactly as she remembers - a lesser mystery from that long-ago visit. The air rushes again, brings a swirl of snow, and for a moment she is somewhere else entirely, staring up at the ancient and dilapidated mirror, in front of the snowy mound that is Sebastian’s grave. Then something snaps, an almost physical sensation like the click of a dial, and she is back above the newly-minted amphitheatre with one foot on the stairs. 

Cornelia descends. The amphitheatre is bright and silent, the stone stairs warm beneath her feet. Around her, larger step-like tiers curve, making space enough to seat at least fifty people. As Cornelia reaches the bottom of the stairs and moves toward the altar she feels strangely exposed, as if she is being watched by an unseen presence. She turns to glance behind her and gasps.

There are faces carved into the stone. They were invisible from above, but there are dozens of them, some serene and staring, others with eyes squeezed shut and mouths open in rapture. It's an alternating pattern, and studying it, Cornelia notices that there only five or six different visages that seem to repeat over and over again. It could be a lack of creativity on the part of the artist, but given the detailed care with which the faces are rendered, she doubts it. It seems, like so much of the imagery associated with this cult, to be a motif of rebirth - the same souls resurrected again and again through time. It's propaganda, of course: this depiction of rapturous beauty is nothing like the horror she has seen, although Cornelia does wonder if the process ever has been less violent. There must surely have been examples of success other than Angela Gresley in order for the cult to convince so many to participate in their rituals.

Is that why she is present in this vision: to understand something about the cult? These carvings and this space are certainly not pulled from her memory, so she can only conclude that this must be a true vision of what Drakelow Hall had looked like when originally built, or if not, it is at the very least a metaphor from which she might glean some truth. 

To that end, she turns back to the focal point of this ritual space: the altar and the towering monolith. The altar is uninteresting, a simple stone slab, new and gleaming. If this is a true representation of Drakelow Hall, then it must be buried in the waking present. Cornelia wonders what stories it could tell her if she could see its future - would it become stained with blood, worn from the touch of too many hands? What offerings would be made here?

It offers no answers, so she moves around it, approaching the monolith instead. It is the true centre of this place, and she can feel its energy pull at her as she steps closer, as she leans her head back to take it in. It towers over her, easily three times her height, and it is covered in the same strange script as the others she's seen. She cannot decipher it, but she can feel the stone radiating power - it seems to be sitting on or creating a convergence of some kind. As with the others, she feels drawn to it, even though its energy feels dangerous and distorted. Touching them in the past has not been pleasant, but Cornelia feels as though she is at the edge of some understanding, and no other answers are forthcoming in this place.

She reaches out and lays her hand on the monument. 

Ants. Her first impression is like it was in Egypt, that there is some great multiplicity of crawling things beneath the surface of the stone. It's warm - not sun-warm like the stairs, but blood warm, clammy-human-flesh warm. Cornelia's first instinct is to pull away immediately, but she resists, leaning in instead, taking a deep breath and trying to steady herself. 

_I'm listening,_ she thinks. _Whatever I need to know, show me_.

She closes her eyes, and her mind erupts. Time contorts and folds itself up, becomes a many-layered thing with membranes thin as gossamer. A stag, a house, a dynamited cathedral, all slip through with ease, slide back, create mirrors of themselves, exist now and then and here and there all at the same time. Life drains away and comes flooding back, flickers like a candle. A million hands reach, desperate and starving, but trapped, waiting until they are told to rise. 

But something is closer. Cornelia feels it and feels with it: cold, icy-Antarctic cold to her bones. There is a great hard barrier, then it lessens, becomes more familiar: cool-damp and peat moss and worms. She feels sadness and fear, then anger - _it's my monolith_ \- then a roar of power obliterates all. The restless energy in the stone spins and pulses, rising up from the point of convergence and rushing past her to the top. When it slows, the hum and the buzz resolve themselves into a rhythm, deep and slow, all too familiar.

It's a heartbeat.

~*~

"You can wait here," Cornelia tells her driver, as he removes the shovel from the boot of the car and hands it to her. He raises a questioning eyebrow, but she's adamant. "Really, I'll be fine."

He doesn't offer much argument - Haynes has been driving her around for years, after all, and is well used to her eccentricities. She leaves him reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes, and turns to her task. 

This is the first time she's been back to Drakelow Hall - at least, the one in Cumbria - since the events that took place here in 1919. Even so, when she gazes up at the mansion, she feels a chill. It looks abandoned and forgotten, a place slowly being reclaimed by nature. Ivy covers the walls and several of the windows are broken, but the house still has a powerful presence. Generations of lives began, ended and were changed here - her story is but one of many to have taken place within its walls. Cornelia is quite glad that she has no intention of going inside. 

Instead, her feet take her across the grounds, treading the same path she had all those years ago. The day is grey and damp, the air silent. There are no birds nesting in neglected niches, and Cornelia doesn't see any evidence of other life either - no fox holes or rabbits scampering away through the grass. The animals seem to have more sense than she does. 

But Cornelia knows where she is headed. The garden still exists, weed-choked and overgrown; the lemon trees still stand, and Cornelia catches the scent of their overripe, rotting fruit as she passes. She makes her way to the remains of the foxhound pen, marked out by a few fence posts and strings of crumpled wire. She steps over them and begins her initial search, toeing around in the damp ground until her foot collides with something metallic. Bending down, she picks up the item, turning it slowly in her hands and brushing away the dirt. 

It is a service pistol, the kind carried by soldiers in the Great War. It would not be an extraordinary find to someone else - this place did serve as a convalescent home for wounded servicemen, after all - but Cornelia knows that this particular pistol was not left by one of the residents. It was not even abandoned on this continent. 

She begins to dig. It is not difficult at first - the soil here is damp and soft, a far cry from the frozen earth they buried him in - but soon Cornelia is feeling her age. Her chest rattles with exertion and she has to rest against the spade, briefly considers going back and asking Haynes for help after all, but decides against it. She cannot possibly explain this, and there is a small, superstitious part of her that worries that bringing a third party here would shift reality enough to make the situation not so. Stranger things have happened, after all.

She continues. She has to rest half a dozen times, and her hair is very quickly stuck to her forehead with sweat, but eventually she makes enough progress that she is afraid to keep using the shovel. Cornelia drops to her knees and starts parting the dirt with her hands. 

It is the rasp of fabric that she feels first. It's soft, and she buries her fingers in the dirt to feel for it, grips something grainy and thick. She clears the earth, and her first glimpse is of something that looks like the pelt of an animal. She feels despair well in her throat for a moment - is this a cruel joke? Has she simply found some long-dead foxhound? But she gives herself a shake and reminds herself that no, they were all wearing furs in Antarctica. 

Excavating further, she uncovers a shoulder, then the top of a broad chest. Her heart is already beating hard from the exertion of digging, but now she feels it flutter, pulls her breath into lungs tight with dread and hope. Her fingers are shaking by the time she finds herself brushing dirt away from a beard, then a nose, then, very carefully, from eyelids.

He looks different. Although caked with dirt, the beard and eyebrows she has revealed are pure white, and as she brushes the earth away from his forehead her fingers trace creases that are deeper than any she remembers him having. But the face is right, the size and shape of his nose and the square jaw beneath his snowy whiskers - all are as she remembers. It's him.

"Sebastian," she says, whispering it like a prayer or an incantation. "Sebastian Saint Battenberg. Wake up."

He opens his eyes. For a moment, they stare blankly, alive but empty, but then they swivel, taking in his surroundings before settling on her. She watches him focus and sees the recognition in his gaze.

"Mrs Cavendish," he says, and his voice is croaky with disuse but he sounds like himself, seems puzzled by the tears that are pooling in her eyes. "Where is all the snow?"

~*~

They get him back to her house in Kensington with a minimum of fuss. To his credit, Haynes doesn't ask any questions when Cornelia limps around the corner with Sebastian, the both of them covered in dirt and Cornelia struggling under the weight of his arm around her shoulder - Sebastian doesn't seem to be injured any more, but he is decidedly wobbly on his feet. Her driver simply bundles them both into the car and takes them home, then helps Sebastian up the stairs when they arrive. Cornelia is almost certain that she sees a neighbour's curtain twitch as she closes the front door, but really, she can't bring herself to care.

She runs Sebastian a bath and fixes him a whiskey. He examines the dirt under his fingernails as she pours the glass. 

"Why," he begins, quieter than she's used to, seemingly still getting used to his voice again. "Why was I buried?" 

Cornelia presses the glass into his hand. "Because you were dead. We left you in Antarctica nearly eight months ago."

Sebastian grips the whiskey in a shaking hand, pulls the glass onto his knee to keep it steady. "How does that work?" he asks.

"How does any of it work," Cornelia responds. "Something to do with the monolith, I expect. If a stag and a house can be transported through time and space, why not a man?" 

"Is that what I am?" he asks, looking up at her. "Still? A man?"

Cornelia reaches out to grip his chin, examines his face again in the light of her living room. Like Nigel Gresley had, he's aged considerably, but otherwise appears to be whole. "You seem to be you," she says. "After a fashion."

"What does that mean?" he asks. 

"There's a mirror in the bathroom," she tells him, releasing her grip. "You can take a look for yourself."

"All right," he agrees, and she helps him to his feet. "But tell me one more thing."

"Mm?"

"How did you know?"

Cornelia smiles, remembering his disdain for her supernatural visions. "I had a dream," she says, and shows him down the hall.

~*~

By the following morning - after a surprisingly long sleep for someone who’s been out for seven months - Sebastian seems to have regained his balance, if not his fine motor skills.

"I may have made a bit of a mess," he says, appearing in the doorway of the kitchen, where Cornelia is making tea. "My hands are still shaky, and I'm not sure my eyesight is as good as it was." He's holding a pair of scissors and the edge of his beard is a wobbly line. "I was trying to trim," he adds, gesturing redundantly. 

Cornelia sighs. "Sit down, then." She takes the scissors from him. 

She tells him about Joy's trip to Italy as she tidies up his whiskers. "She thinks those things are still out there waiting," she says, tilting his head to the side as she works the scissors up towards his ear, "and she's right. They are. I felt them."

"You felt them," Sebastian says, when she pauses for a moment to inspect her handiwork. "In your…?"

"In my dream, yes," Cornelia agrees. Satisfied with the job, she switches to his other side. "The dream in which I also felt you. And you were there, so…"

He waits for the scissors to snip, then sighs heavily. "So Dorothy's gone home and Joy's on a mission. I've come all the way back from the dead just to spend time with you."

Cornelia pauses her ministrations, glances up at him. She's got scissors in one hand and his chin in the other. "I could send you back, if you like," she says, but she she's secretly pleased. She wouldn't believe it was really him if he never insulted her.

~*~

They go shopping. Cornelia has a few items in the house that will serve him, but the truth is, there hasn't been a man in her home for many years, so none of it satisfies for long.

"You're legally dead," she says, "so I'll have to pay. You're coming with me, though, and we certainly won't be visiting Savile Row. Everyone's feeling the pinch, since the stock market."

He pulls his coat on as she opens the door. "What happened to the stock market?"

The first thing she buys him is a newspaper. 

They visit Piccadilly, wandering the arcades to find Sebastian a suitable wardrobe, then head to Selfridge's so he can procure some other essentials. As she's waiting in an aisle while he selects socks and undergarments, she is spotted by an old acquaintance, Mr Bedford, who she originally met on a cruise to the Canary Islands, but has happened upon many times since in London society. He is a tall man in his mid-fifties, sensibly dressed, and when he spots her he flashes a brilliant smile and approaches.

"Mrs Cavendish," he greets her, grasping her hand, "what a pleasure to see you."

"Likewise," she replies, "and how are you?"

"Oh, very well, very well. Feeling uncertain in these interesting times, of course, like everyone, but yes, I can't complain."

Cornelia smiles, acknowledging the statement with a nod of the head. "And your wife and daughter? I trust they're well?"

"Yes," he enthuses, "they're very well. Sarah is finishing school this year, and we're hoping to send her to university. Your Joy has been an inspiration to us all."

"I'm glad to hear it," Cornelia says. "I'll mention that to her in my next letter - she's in Italy at present, researching some society or another."

"How wonderful. What a fine adventurous spirit you've instilled in her."

Cornelia is is about to reply when Sebastian reappears, shopping bag in hand, and joins the conversation. "Ah, Mr Bedford, this is my friend, staying with me at the moment while he recovers from an ordeal." She prattles as she hesitates to name him, unsure of the protocol of the situation, under the circumstances.

But Sebastian seems to feel no such conflict. "Sebastian St Battenberg," he announces, extending his hand, "charmed, I'm sure."

"Tom Bedford," the man responds, and they shake hands. It's a firm handshake, as Sebastian's always are, but Cornelia notices something strange occur this time - Bedford seems to come out of it more cheerful, and Sebastian is left surreptitiously flexing his fingers. 

"Well," Mr Bedford says, after a few more minutes of polite small talk, "I should let you get on with your shopping, shouldn't I? It was wonderful to see you."

"Hm," Sebastian grunts, as the man walks away. 

"I'm not sure you should be announcing your identity like that," Cornelia murmurs. "It seems risky."

"Well, I'm not going to pretend to be anyone else," Sebastian declares, in a strange huff.

~*~

Later that evening, the mystery of his mood resolves itself for her. They're sitting in her parlour engaged in their own activities - Sebastian reading his paper and Cornelia trying her hand at needlepoint. It's a tedious hobby, but she shut her crystals and her tarot cards in a trunk in the attic months ago, and she's not going to let a little thing like bringing someone back from the dead break her resolve to steer clear of the occult.

She's almost grateful when Sebastian closes his paper abruptly. "How old do you think I am?" he asks.

She looks up. "I don't know. How old are you?"

Sebastian's brows furrow. "No, I mean now. How old do you think I am _now_?"

"Oh. Well…." She studies him, and he sits up straighter under her gaze, puffing out his chest, which makes her smile, because it's as broad as ever. It's his face that shows the difference - and the whitening of his hair, of course. "It's hard to say, but you can probably add ten years at least. Whatever that might mean." She reaches for her sherry, which is sitting on the side table, and takes a sip. 

He has his own glass, mirrors her gesture by picking it up. He stares into it for a moment before taking a swig. "It means _something_ ," he says. "There's my eyesight, and today I _lost_ a handshake."

"How can you lose a _handshake?_ " she asks.

Sebastian smiles wryly. "Your friend had a stronger grip than me. That's never happened to me before."

"Never?" Cornelia is surprised.

Sebastian shakes his head. "No. I've always been stronger than others. Is that…?" He glances away as if realising something. "Is that what ageing is? Just...losing things?"

Cornelia feels her eyebrow lift, huffs a laugh. Leave it to Sebastian to ask something so tactless. But the question seems to be genuine, so she tries to answer it honestly. She drinks some more sherry first. "It can seem that way at times, particularly--" and here she peers at him pointedly "--when someone goes out of their way to point out what you've lost, or dismisses you out of hand because they think you feeble. But I would say that being old is far preferable to being dead, and there are certain advantages."

"Such as?" Sebastian asks. 

"Being a little bit wiser and a little less easy to fool. Knowing yourself and what you want a bit more. Caring less about what other people think." She smiles. 

Sebastian smiles back, but the expression seems rather queasy. Cornelia supposes that altering his thinking won't be as easy as listening to few simple words - he is facing quite a major life change, after all, and without the gentle declining slope most people experience. Still, she's not inclined to let him feel _too_ sorry for himself - by her measure she's still got at least seven years on him. 

Rising to pour herself another sherry, she reaches out for his glass as well. "Refill?" she asks, when he doesn't respond. 

He seems to react from a million miles away, stammering his assent before passing her his whiskey tumbler. She catches both the glass and his attention, waiting for him to look at her before she takes it from his grip. 

"Relax," she says, when he does. "You're learning from the best."

~*~

With Sebastian in her home, Cornelia realises that she's going to have to live by the mantra of 'not caring what people think' in a very real way. It's just past too-early-to-be-polite when one of her neighbours knocks on the door. Opening it, Cornelia finds the woman waiting with a wide smile, an envelope clutched in her hand.

"Mrs House," Cornelia says, greeting the younger woman cordially, "what can I do for you?"

"I'm awfully sorry to bother you, Mrs Cavendish," she says, "but it seems I've been given a piece of your mail. I think it's a letter from your daughter?"

"Oh," Cornelia replies, noticing that the woman makes eye contact, but then her eyes seem to drift past Cornelia and into the house, as if she's searching for something. "That's wonderful, thank you for delivering it." She reaches for the missive, and it takes just a moment too long for the item to be handed to her, confirming her suspicions that what she has here is a snoop. 

"Is Joy away, then?" Mrs House asks, as politeness forces her to release her hold on the missive. 

Cornelia resists the urge to snatch the letter away and reply as she wishes, which is to say _Obviously._ Instead, she pastes on a polite smile and responds: "Yes; she's doing anthropological work in Italy."

"Oh, how lovely." 

Cornelia expects that to be the end of it, but Mrs House doesn't move, and silence hangs awkwardly for a beat or two. "Is there something else?" Cornelia asks, noticing her neighbour's eyes wandering again.

Mrs House’s attention snaps back to her. "Yes, I was wondering if you wouldn't mind checking your mail to make sure there hasn't been a double mix-up. I’m waiting on a letter from my Maxwell - he usually writes to me every month from school."

"Certainly I’ll check," Cornelia says. She leaves the door open, but does not invite the other woman in as she moves to the side table to sift through her pile of recent mail. She doubts very much that Mrs House is missing anything - wonders if she might have connived with the postman to get her hands on Cornelia’s letter in the first place - but takes some satisfaction in the knowledge that her snooping will come to nothing: Sebastian is still in bed. 

“Sorry,” Cornelia says, once she’s shuffled through her correspondence. “There’s nothing here for you.” The smile on her face as she returns to the door feels rather insincere. “Thank you for delivering mine, though. I’ll be sure to check that the postman can read correctly the next time he stops by.”

She rids herself of the woman a moment later.

~*~

Cornelia doesn’t mention her visitor, but she does summarise Joy’s letter to Sebastian over breakfast.

“She’s moved on from Italy and is now in Germany. It seems she found Fritz’s name in some documents in Naples, and now she’s gone to see if she can gain access to his research. She’s not sure if he was a part of the cabal or just stumbled into their activities through his horticultural studies, but she thinks it’s important to find out how much he knew and who else might have been privy to the information.” Cornelia takes another mouthful of her porridge. 

“Quite right,” Sebastian says, cracking open his third boiled egg. “I do worry about her doing all this alone, though. Even Angela Gresley wasn’t impervious to violence.”

Cornelia glances at the letter beside her hand, measures her next response because she’s unsure how she feels about it. “It seems she’s not alone. One of the Italian archaeologists she met on the cathedral site has travelled with her.”

“A lady archaeologist?” Sebastian wonders. “How fortunate for Joy to find another educated woman like herself out there - there can’t be too many of them actually working in the field.”

Cornelia purses her lips. “No, not a lady. A young man by the name of Marco, apparently.”

“Oh,” Sebastian murmurs. “I see.”

“Hm,” Cornelia agrees. 

But she is not going to dwell on it. Her upbringing would instruct her to take a very dim view of an unmarried young woman travelling in company with a man, but the times have changed somewhat, and Cornelia must trust in Joy’s judgement and responsible nature. Marriage, after all, is no guarantee of fealty - just look at the way her own turned out. 

Cornelia changes the subject. “She’s included a reply address, and of course I'll write back to her. I’m not sure what to tell her about you, though.”

“Don’t,” Sebastian says, without hesitation. Seeing the surprise on Cornelia’s face, he elaborates: “She’ll feel like she has to come running back here, if you do, and it sounds like what she’s doing is important. Sounds like she might even be enjoying it. I'll be here when she gets back."

It's unexpectedly thoughtful of him, and Cornelia smiles. She does have a great deal of affection for this big, foolish man, just as Joy does. "I'm not sure she'll forgive me," Cornelia says, unsure. 

Sebastian shrugs. "Then you can blame me. That should be easy enough for you." His mouth curls into a smile of its own.

Cornelia arches an eyebrow, piercing him with a stare as she rises to rinse her porridge bowl. "Excuse me. I don't believe I've ever blamed you for anything that _wasn't_ your fault."

Sebastian butters a crumpet and leans back in his chair. "Jean-Selim's best bargepole being eaten by a crocodile on our way back to Cairo," he says, by way of response.

"It was _in your hand,_ " Cornelia points out.

"Only because you demanded I retrieve your hat from the river, which you threw in there yourself."

Cornelia drops her bowl into the sink. "You told me there was a spider on it."

She can hear him chuckling behind her. "There was."

Cornelia harrumphs to let him know what she thinks of _that_ , turns on the tap to silence his laughter. She rinses her bowl and sets it on the rack, keeps her back to him while she washes and dries her spoon.

It doesn’t stop him from continuing. "Burning a pentagram into the dining room carpet on the Arundel Castle." His voice is all quiet amusement behind her.

She throws a look over her shoulder. “You knocked over the candle!" 

"That's a technicality, and you know it."

She does, but she's not about to admit it; stalks over to the larder and flings open the door to give herself something to do. 

"And what about drinking our last bottle of whiskey in Chicago, on Christmas Eve?" Sebastian asks.

" _That_ certainly wasn't me!"

It's true, but as she looks at the empty shelves and laments her current lack of live-in cook, another possibility occurs to her. Sebastian seems to have the same thought, because they both look at each other and say "Dorothy!" at the same time. 

Sebastian's booming laugh fills the room. "God, she threw it away, didn't she? So that we weren't drunk on Christmas."

"I suspect so," Cornelia agrees.

There is a beat of silence, then Sebastian asks: "What are we going to do about Dorothy?"

Cornelia leans on the larder door for a moment, considering. "I'll have to write to her once we know Joy's coming home. I can't tell one and not the other, even if it will take her longer to get here." Sebastian nods, and another thought occurs to Cornelia. "What about your brother? Are you going to contact him?"

Sebastian sighs and wrinkles his nose. "I suppose? I mean yes, I am, I will, but...well, it's just a bit awkward, isn't it? Me being back from the dead and him being a priest and all. There's only one guy who's supposed to be able to do that."

Cornelia huffs a laugh, but it is indeed a difficult situation. "Blame me," she suggests. "That shouldn't be too hard for you." She glances once again at the larder and resolves to telephone the grocer. "And if he needs any proof that you're real, he can come and look at my cupboards. You've eaten me out of house and home."

~*~

Three days later, Cornelia returns home from a charity committee meeting to find the house full of the smell of freshly-baked bread. It's not Wednesday - the day that her housekeeper comes by to clean and prepare a few meals - so the aroma is rather confusing.

Her confusion is only partially resolved when she enters the kitchen to find Sebastian wearing a pair of oven mitts, standing over a fairly impressive knotted loaf.

"Where did that come from?" Cornelia asks, feeling her world tilting rather alarmingly on its axis.

"I made it," Sebastian says, gazing at the thing as proudly as if he had sired a baby. 

"I think I pulled a changeling out of the ground," Cornelia breathes. She's only half joking. 

"No," Sebastian says, "my sister-in-law taught me. Well, when I lived with them at the vicarage she made me make the dough. I've never actually baked a loaf before. But I think it turned out alright."

"It did," Cornelia says, still somewhat flabbergasted. It's more impressive than anything she's ever cooked in her life, even if, looking closer, she can see that it's a bit browner on one side than the other. "It smells wonderful."

"Well," Sebastian says, tugging the oven mits off, "just let it cool down a bit, and then we can have some."

"I'll make the tea," she says, and moves bemusedly to fill the kettle. 

"By the way," he says, apparently not finished surprising her, "would you mind terribly if I poked around your garden shed? I want to do things with my hands again."

Cornelia is not entirely sure when she started living on Mars, but as far as alternate realities go, it's not a bad one. "Go right ahead," she says.

~*~

Over the following week, Sebastian tinkers. He pokes around her garden shed, straightening things up, and prepares some of the foliage he recognises for the winter. Cornelia usually has a man for these jobs, but when she sees what a kick Sebastian is on she cancels the gardener's monthly visit and tells Sebastian that she thinks there are some plant books in the attic. He spends a day poking around up there, and in the end returns with several volumes.

Sebastian sows peas and broad beans in freshly turned earth. He cuts trees back and ties climbing things to wire. Cornelia barely gets a word out of him for two nights in a row as he sits immersed in reading. He has to hold the books out in front of him even with his glasses on, but he doesn’t seem to notice. 

She finds her tarot cards on the coffee table the next morning. "I was looking for books in the attic again," he tells her, "but I found those instead. You should use them, do what you enjoy. Needlepoint looks boring."

"I swore off all that," Cornelia says, but her smile feels rather sad.

Sebastian's gaze meets hers. "Why?" he asks. "It wasn't your fault that we ended up in tricky situations, and you lead us in the right direction plenty of times. I wouldn't even be here without you."

He heads out the front door to prune her climbing roses, and Cornelia stares after him in wonder. After a moment, she reaches for the deck, sliding the cards out of the pack and shuffling them slowly in her hands. They do make her feel powerful, connected to something larger than herself. She's missed the feeling, but she's not sure about inviting the spirits back into her life. 

Well. She's not sure about inviting any _more_. 

She thinks about that as she shuffles - Sebastian's presence here in her life and her home, what it means to have him back. Cornelia doesn't really believe in a Christian God, but she does believe that there are reasons for things, that the universe sets up events in certain ways. Why did he come back, and where will his presence lead her?

She pulls a single card from the deck and flips it over. It's the Two of Cups - a man and a woman facing each other, exchanging ceremonial goblets. It's a card that symbolises union, partnership and a connection between equals - quite a powerful relationship card, though more ambiguous than The Lovers in that it can symbolise a romantic bond, friendship, or even a promising business connection. A spread would give her a clearer contextual picture.

Cornelia slips the card back into the deck. Sometimes, she thinks, uncertainty is better.

~*~

That evening, once they’ve eaten their meal and are into their cups, Sebastian announces: “I met one of the neighbours today.”

 _Oh, wonderful,_ Cornelia thinks. “While you were out doing the roses?” she asks. “Was it Mrs House, from across the street?”

“I don’t think so. She seemed to come up the road from the left. She had dark hair, and a poodle.”

Perfect Sebastian bait. “And you had a conversation?”

“Oh, yes,” Sebastian says. “She was very friendly. Asked a lot of questions.”

“I bet,” Cornelia murmurs. “Not about the garden, though, were they?”

“No,” Sebastian answers, all wide-eyed and oblivious. “She seemed rather interested in me. She wanted to know where I'm from, how I know you, how long I'm staying, that sort of thing. She also asked me whether I was married, for some reason.”

“And you told her…?”

“I told her that I'm from Cheshire, but I didn't tell her my family name. I said that we’re old travelling companions and I’m staying as long as you’ll have me, that I have been married but I’m not anymore.”

“Of course you did,” Cornelia sighs, taking a swallow of her sherry. 

Sebastian looks confused. “What’s wrong with that?”

Cornelia smiles, though the expression is somewhat wry. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter really. But if we weren’t yet the local scandal, we certainly will be now.”

It doesn’t clear up his confusion. “Why would we be…?” he asks, then trails off, clearly thinking very hard about it. 

Cornelia gives him a hint. “Think about what you look like now. What would you think was going on if your widowed neighbour had a similarly aged divorced man staying with her while her daughter was away?”

Sebastian’s eyes widen as understanding blossoms behind his eyes. “ _Oh,_ ” he whispers, and his mouth stays in that shape afterward. “Sorry,” he adds, belatedly. 

“No,” Cornelia replies, “don’t apologise. I don’t really care what they think. I mean that. It’s more of a…sport, or a hobby, keeping them guessing. I should have told you that they were fishing.”

“They probably would have caught me anyway,” Sebastian says, sighing. “I’m no good at that sort of thing.”

Cornelia smiles, and it’s a much softer expression this time. “I know,” she murmurs. “It doesn't matter. Let them think what they like.”

But Sebastian seems unusually bothered by it. "But...why should they even _care_? What business is it of theirs what you and I are doing?” His voice rises. “How _dare_ they--”

Cornelia feels a flare of irritation, drains her sherry glass and rises to refill it, cutting him off in the process. “Oh, _do_ calm down,” she snaps. “I know the idea of being romantically connected with me must be horrible for you, but you don’t have to be an arse about it.” She flicks a glance at him as she pours her drink, and he looks like he's been slapped.

"That's not what I meant," he squeaks. 

Peering at him doubtfully, she moves back to her seat.

Sebastian sighs. "I know I've said unkind things to you in the past, when it comes to relationship matters, and I apologise for that. I suppose I didn't think you'd care, being old - I assumed that one just accepted that story, that they were done with all that. But now I realise that I was wrong. I don't feel any different, in my head, but suddenly people look at me funny, and apparently talk about me like I'm not even a person. Was it the same for you?"

"It was," she agrees, mollified. "One moment I was a wealthy widow with suitors to fend off, and the next I was an old bat."

Sebastian sips his drink. "Why did you fend them off?" he asks.

Cornelia smiles, but closes her eyes for a moment, because the answer to that is a particularly poignant stab now: "Because I loved Brendel, and I was loyal to his memory. What a mistake that turned out to be." She glances at Sebastian again, feels her smile twist. "Still, I take solace from the fact that I did at least take one lover, even if it was only for a single night in a Chicago hotel."

Sebastian nearly chokes on his whiskey, coughing and spluttering for several seconds before he manages to take hold of himself again. "In Chicago?" he manages eventually. "While we were…?"

"Mmhm," Cornelia murmurs, recalling that night with a warm, secret glow. "Another thing one learns with age is discretion. So perhaps you do accept the story others tell, but only because you're quietly writing your own right under their noses."

Sebastian smiles even as he rubs his chest. "I don't know how I still manage to underestimate you," he says.

"That can be a good thing," she replies.

"I suppose. But whatever story the neighbours are telling, I'm sure they're underestimating how phenomenally bad _I_ am at any sort of romance. I'm a complete heel, a total disaster - I'm sure that's why my three marriages ended. I probably come off better in fiction."

Cornelia rolls a shoulder. "Stories are limiting," she says, "but the universe has endless permutations. There are many more ways to be than what the residents of Kensington can come up with."

~*~

Sebastian seems to enjoy the gardening, until he doesn't.

"It's frosty," he tells her one morning, after being outside for all of five minutes. She pours him a cup of tea from her pot instead, and he wraps his hands around it like a lifeline. The next time she passes a window, she takes a look out, and can barely see any ice at all.

He seems to feel the cold acutely, asks her for an extra blanket twice and wants the radiator turned up constantly. When Cornelia ventures out, she returns to a sitting room that's almost tropical, and when she vents the room it is against his protest, but she simply can't stand it. 

"Must still be getting used to these older bones," he offers as explanation, but Cornelia can't help but wonder if it's more than that.

She hears him at night. At first it's just bumping and rustling, like he can't sleep. She is a light sleeper herself - always has been, except when in the grip of supernatural dreams - so his thrashing in the next room wakes her often. She's usually able to roll over and drift off again, so it doesn't bother her unduly, but she is aware that it's happening.

Then the muttering starts. Cornelia wakes in the night to the sound of Sebastian's voice, talking gibberish and crying out. Occasionally she can make out words, like 'heavy' or 'off' or 'away', but the snatches of audible language tell her little about what is happening to him. 

"Are you having nightmares?" she asks him, after a particularly noisy night. 

Sebastian shakes his head. "Terrors," he says. "I know it's happening but I don't really remember. I used to have them after the war; sorry if I'm disturbing you. Hopefully they'll pass."

But they don't. Sebastian's nocturnal distress becomes louder and more frequent, and with each passing day he looks more haggard. Dark circles develop under his eyes, his footsteps grow heavy with exhaustion, and one afternoon Cornelia comes home from another social engagement to find him sitting in the parlour staring blankly into space. It's an expression that's eerily reminiscent of the Egyptian deckhand or the Chinese sailors, and it sets a dim curl of dread churning in her stomach. 

"Sebastian," she says, hoping to break his torpor. 

"Hm… _What?_ " he startles, bumping the glass by his hand and barely saving it from toppling over. "Hello. Sorry. Didn't hear you come in."

"You were a million miles away," she tells him, crossing the room to fix herself a drink. She inspects the whiskey bottle as she picks up her sherry, trying to reassure herself that he's just been drinking, but while he does appeared to have poured himself a glass, there's nowhere near enough missing for him to be drunk. 

"I...yes," he says, apparently still regaining coherency. "I don't know where I was. I'm tired into next week."

Cornelia pours her glass and peers at him as she restoppers the bottle. She doesn't like the sudden suspicion creeping into her mind, but she has to listen to it. "If you can't remember the terrors," she asks, "why do you think they're bothering you so much?"

Sebastian rubs at his eyes. "I don't remember details," he says, "but I know _something_ is happening. My sleep isn't restful, and when I wake up I feel like I've had a...shadow, or something...hovering over me."

It doesn't reassure her.

~*~

Cornelia is in the attic. She’s been up here several times in the last few days, consulting the books she thought she’d stored away forever - reading all she can about black energy and how to protect a loved-one from harm.

She's investigated and then dismissed the information she has on fetches, changelings and demonic doubles, simply refusing to believe that the man she's been living her life beside is anyone other than the real Sebastian. It's not that nothing about him fits the information she found - she did dig him up out of the ground, after all. His reticence to contact his priest brother could be a tell, and mythology is full of fae creatures entrapping mortals with food as well. But baking and being antisocial are also perfectly ordinary things for a person to do, and she's known Sebastian for a decade. She cares about him, and she wants him to stay.

So protecting a loved-one it is. 

Seated on the floor, Cornelia assembles the materials she's collected. She opens a small cotton bag and sets it in front of her, props her reference book open on her knee. She hasn't done anything quite like this before, but she supposes that one is never too old to practise witchcraft. No doubt she is fulfilling someone's view of her right now.

She picks up a stone - black tourmaline - and holds it in her hand. It has numerous protective qualities, this stone, and as she rolls it in her palm she tries to feel them, imagining the layers of earth and rock it was once a part of, an impenetrable shield protecting them from the forces beneath - both the figurative dangers and those grasping humanoid creatures. She sits with the image for a time, letting it solidify in her mind, then uses a small paintbrush dipped in sandalwood oil to paint a protective rune on the stone.

"Hard as a stone, this shield I cast shall never fail." She places the stone in the bag.

Next, she picks up a walnut, whole and well-formed. She pictures the nut held safe inside, imagines its shell made larger, providing protection from the primordial power reaching out. 

"Walnut protects, feel no threats." She drops the walnut beside the stone.

A piece of blackberry bark is next, for the protection of surroundings, then powdered eggshell to shield the soft inner self. For some reason, Cornelia takes extra care while pouring that into the bag for Sebastian. Lasty, she adds a small snip of his hair - given freely, if not fully explained ( _you're looking a bit shaggy, can I at least trim these ends off?_ ). She tugs the bag closed and ties three knots in the cord, speaking the words that her book requests:

"Powers of High listen to my plea, a shield I form blessed by thee. No foe, no harm can pass. I pray to thee, make it forever be. This sacred night this shield is formed; he is protected. Threats begone!"

The theatre of the task appeals to her, the rhyming less so. Still, she thinks she feels _something_ as she places the bag in the centre of four candles, positioned for each of the cardinal points. The salt circle she sprinkles around the lot makes it feel rather authentic, and the match burns brightly in the attic's heavy air. She lights the candles and watches them burn.

"I walk in circles of light."

~*~

"To shield your dreams," she tells Sebastian the following evening, leaning against the back of the chair he's sitting in and dangling the pouch in front of his nose. It's not entirely true - the amulet is more general purpose than specific to sleep, but she doesn't want him knowing that she suspects occult influence. "Put it under your pillow when you sleep."

He reaches up and catches the bag with in his fingers. "What's in it?" he asks, feeling the contents, glancing at Cornelia as she moves away from him and settles herself in her chair.

"Magic," she tells him. "The proper kind, with candles and salt and rhyming. I made it for you."

His brow has a skeptical cant, but he smiles all the same. "Are you a witch now?"

"All told," she says, picking up her deck of tarot cards and beginning to shuffle them, "I'd say that's more on-form than your hidden talent as a baker." They'd had more homemade bread with dinner; he was improving with every loaf. 

"Fair," Sebastian says, conceding. 

"And you did tell me to follow my interests," she adds. 

"Might be the only time you've ever followed one of my suggestions," he says. His tone is light, though - lighter than it's seemed in a while - and he tucks the bag in his pocket as he rises and makes no further comment. That in itself seems a revelation.

"Drink?" he asks, as he moves across the room.

~*~

She is particularly aware of his movement that night. He takes some time to settle - she can hear him moving about his room as she prepares for sleep, listens to the creak of his bed as she braids her hair. As she slides beneath her duvet, she hears the dull thud of his bed frame against the wall as he makes a few attempts to settle, but then there's silence. Cornelia drifts off with a feeling of satisfaction.

It's a deep sleep she wakes from, the kind that clings to the edges of her mind even as her eyes fly open, making her momentarily confused about what’s woken her. It takes a few heartbeats for the fog to clear, a moment for her brain to parse that she can see the shapes of the furniture in her room because of extra light coming through her open bedroom door, and another for her to realise that the silhouette of Sebastian’s bulk is standing over her bed. 

“Good God!” she hisses, scrambling up, reaching out a frantic hand and fumbling for the lamp. She finds the switch and flicks it on, filling the room with yellow light. “Sebastian!” Her heart is pounding. 

He doesn’t move. His face is blank, eyes open but empty, wearing the same expression she'd seen before on the afternoon she surprised him. It terrifies her, and she curls her legs up, casting about for somewhere to spring, for something to defend herself with, but there is nothing within reach and nowhere to run - he is between her and the door. 

But he doesn't move. The clock on her bedside table sounds out several seconds, and he just stands there, eerily silent but non-threatening. Cornelia has time to notice that he is shirtless, that his chest is scarred in several places - up near his shoulder from the wound he took in America, but also, curiously, from the gunshot that killed him. Even in her current state she has enough sense to find that strange - what kind of magic revival necessitated the formation of scar tissue? She also notices that he is clutching her charm tight in his fist.

She realises as she completes her observation that her fear has cooled somewhat - that whatever is happening here, he doesn't seem to have come into her room to kill her. After a moment, she ventures speaking again: "Sebastian?"

The muscles in his shoulders ripple, turning into a shudder that shakes his whole body. Cornelia feels her fingers grip the sheets, and for one horrifying moment she expects a nest of hands to burst from his chest. 

But they don't. Instead, he speaks. "Ice," he says, his voice toneless but recognisable. "Cold here. Can't...get out."

Cornelia's grip on the sheets loosens, but she can't yet bring herself to relax. She wonders if he is trying to communicate with her, or if his response is reflexive. Either way, it could be a chance to get to the bottom of this. "Where are you?"

"Buried. It's cold and dark here. Heavy. Can't...can't move."

 _Good lord._ He's locked into one of his night terrors, but he's dreaming of being buried. Dreaming, or remembering. Cornelia's gaze fixates on that chest wound, on the scar tissue that would have taken time to form. _Could_ he be remembering his death? And does that negate her earlier fears? She remembers the strange, twisted energy she felt when she touched the monolith in her dream, the sense she had of him but also of the others. How connected is he to all of them?

"Is anyone with you?" she asks.

"Alone," he rasps, but now he sounds sad, and as he continues his voice takes on a fearful edge. "Cold and alone, can't get out. I feel them - they're reaching. They're hungry. But they're trapped, deep down - she's keeping them down."

 _She?_ Cornelia wonders, but she doesn't have time to consider it, because Sebastian continues.

"I'm safe, but I'm cold. So cold. Trapped. _Lonely_. Save me, hear me, save--"

Sebastian shudders again, stumbles back, blinking rapidly. He lifts a hand to shield his eyes from the light.

"What…?" he says, and his voice has its usual cadence back. "Where the hell am I?"

Cornelia finally feels her muscles unclench. "You're in my room, Sebastian."

Slowly, he lowers his hand, head swiveling to take in his surroundings. "How did I get in here?" he asks.

Exhaling her relief, Cornelia's mouth curls up into a wry smile. "Through the door. Walking, I expect. I wasn't awake to see you."

"Good God." Now that his senses have returned, the awkwardness of the situation seems to hit him. "I didn't… Did I… What did I do?"

"You gave me a bit of a fright," she says, "but you just talked."

"About what?" he asks, alarmed.

"About what's been troubling you," Cornelia says. She's not sure if that's a comfort or not. "I think you're having nightmares about being buried. You really don't remember them at all?"

"No," he says, blinking. "But my nights have been...heavy." 

She decides not to tell him the details. If he can't remember in his waking hours, perhaps there's a reason that his conscious mind is shielding him. Besides, she thinks there could be a simpler solution. 

"I think my charm was misguided," Cornelia says, "or perhaps it guided you here to reveal its limitations."

"What…?" Sebastian starts, but then seems to notice that he has the thing in his hand. It's hard to tell in the half-light, but his cheeks seem to colour up as he realises. "Well, I…" He stumbles.

"You mentioned being alone," Cornelia says. "It seemed to cause you some distress. I wonder if the winter and the weight of your blankets has brought back your memories of Antarctica and contributed to your dreams."

"Maybe," Sebastian says, feet shuffling. "That could be it."

"Then might I propose a solution?" she asks. 

Sebastian looks up at her, seems to be full of anxious hope. "Like what?" he asks.

Cornelia lifts the edge of her duvet. "This is goose-down," she says. "Many feathers, but still light. And it's always warmer with two." She holds his gaze, arches an eyebrow. "The neighbours are already whispering, so we might as well. Would you care to join me?"

He does.

~FIN~


End file.
